


sacramentum militare

by noahfronsenburg



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Age Difference, Implied Sexual Content, King and Lionheart, Loyalty, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Service Submission, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 09:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfronsenburg/pseuds/noahfronsenburg
Summary: “Take your helmet off, Gaius pyr Baelsar. I wish to see a man’s face when he lies to me.”





	sacramentum militare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanitaslaughing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanitaslaughing/gifts).



> this is for neku and its an early birthday gift bc its for her birthday but patch is dropping in (looks at watch) (shrieks) and i was like
> 
> yeha nows the time for this
> 
> man, i cannot Fucking wait for everything to come out and for gaius to find out what he was serving all along
> 
> :)

The first thing he noticed was that the Optio was not frightened.

This was worthy of notice since  _very few_ people were not frightened of Solus zos Galvus.

The Optio stood at attention in the door of Solus’ tent, patient and still. His armor was at a sheen, and everything about his attitude reeked of perfection, of exactitude. Even with war raging outside, he had refused to bow to the horrors of combat. Solus glanced at him once more, and returned to his work, as if he had not noticed the man who he had called hence standing in his tent. He had learned, through many years of practice, how to make men who could stand straight-backed before death cower at his passing, bow their heads in subservience and _beg_. He would wait, patiently, until the man broke.

At an hour and twenty, the Optio snapped.

“Your Radiance,” the Optio said, his voice still and unbothered, “I am certain that you have better things to do than wait for me to break down and beg for your mercy. My pride is not worth an Empire.” Solus turned and saw that the man had knelt, with a fluidity and grace he had not expected. There was no recalcitrance in the line of his shoulders; simply acceptance of natural subjugation.“Pray, my Lord, consider this grovelling.”

From any other, Solus would have counted this capitulation as a ploy to cover a bruised ego, but there was no fury, no fear in that voice. There was just resignation—annoyance, even, perhaps. But not annoyance at the show of servitude. Annoyance at wasted time.

Solus finished what he was doing, capped his pen, and set it aside before he turned back to the man. “Rise,” he said, and the Optio stood, falling to parade rest. “You are Gaius pyr Baelsar?” The Optio nodded. Solus made a quiet noise, and reached for the report he had set aside upon his desk, and lifted it. He held it up so the other man could see it, waved it back and forth to hold his attention. “This is your report from three days past, which I found myself reading with no little interest. This is all accurate?”

“Yes, my Lord. You have my apologies that it came from me. Unfortunately, I am unable to do anything about the death of my Centurion.”

“Pity,” Solus agreed, without any in his voice. He tossed the report back on his desk and relaxed, draped his arm over the back of his chair, and played with the tail end of the grey streak that had grown into his hair in the last three years, the white all the more striking against the rest of his dark hair. “I understand the death of your Centurion, as there is very little that can be done when a man has thrown himself upon a ceruleum tank to save his century, but I find myself far more interested in the death of your commanding officer. Your Tribunus Militum, you say, was killed in the skirmish? That is not a common occurrence.”

pyr Baelsar nodded again. When he spoke, it was with a nonchalance that was so natural it was impressive. “Indeed, sir, when the left flank was lost in the Dalmascan fire, the Tribunus reinforced the forward position of the central van to hold the breach, should the left flank have collapsed. He was killed during the resulting melee, after the lines rejoined.”

“‘With honor upon the field of battle.’” Solus drily quoted back, the very formal language that Baelsar had used in his report, still playing with the curl in his hair, watching the Optio, who still did not move. Very formal. Almost  _uncomfortably_ formal. “As your report said.” Solus stared, unblinking, at the man, and found himself half-smiling,  _amused_ , if such a thing was possible. “I should like to hear the truth, if you please.”

The Optio squared his shoulders, a nervous tic that revealed more of his hand than his voice did. “My Lord, I find myself confused at your line of inquiry. The truth is what is contained in my report, sir. Tribunus rem Vesu was cut down in the resulting chaos after the fire was set, rallying the cohort to hold the ground until the left flank reached us.” There was not even a quaver to his voice.

Solus finally dropped his hand, done with performative nonchalance, and when he next spoke, his voice was like steel. “Take your helmet off, Gaius pyr Baelsar. I like to see a man’s face when he lies to me.”

The Optio did not hesitate, not struck silent as many other men had been before him. He reached up and took his helmet off, held it under his arm. He was strikingly young beneath it, certainly not older than a score of years, with dusky, mahogany-brown skin and a shock of jet-black hair, cut shorter than regulation length, bristling near to his scalp. The young man had blue eyes that looked even paler against his dark coloring, and they were absolutely devoid of fear, as steady as the flat line of his mouth. pyr Baelsar had a look to him of a man who knew what he wanted, and he would broke no losses along that road—something Solus could empathize with.

“The  _truth_ ,” Solus repeated, holding the Optio’s eyes with his own, unblinking. “If you would be so kind.”

The Optio held Solus eyes as he spoke. “Tribunus Domitian rem Vesu was killed leading the van with honor upon the field of battle, and fell with valor rallying the cohort to hold our ground.” Gaius pyr Baelsar did not so much as blink. His voice did not shake. Not the slightest tremble. He gave away nothing; there was no fear in him, and Solus grinned, all-teeth, back at him, leaned his chin on his fist and smiled.

“Fascinating,” he said, at last. “I do believe I cannot even think of the last time anyone stood their ground before my displeasure. I could cut you down and nobody would blink or mark your passing.” There it was, at last—a flicker of fear, the slightest lidding of pyr Baelsar’s eyes, but it was a lapse. There and gone.

“Permission to speak freely, my Lord?”

“Granted.”

“You would not be Emperor were you a man given to needless waste.” Either brave or foolish in equal measure to believe speaking freely meant that a boy could insult the Emperor to his face. For any other, Solus would have cut them down just for that—but his attention had been piqued.

“And the truth, Optio? I _long_ for it. I do not give permission to speak freely for boys to talk as if they know the weight of rule.” The Optio _was_ a boy. There was no way he was of twenty summers; he had to be, perhaps at most, nineteen. Eighteen was more likely. He must have enrolled young, lied on his paperwork to join the army. To fight, and die, for his country. Bravery and foolishness in equal measure—the surest way for a mortal to meet their grave.

The Optio hesitated a moment longer, and then relaxed slightly, his shoulders shifting as he let out some of the weight he carried by force. “When the left flank seemed lost, the Tribunus assumed the worst, and called for a full retreat to the safety of the main line, rather than holding the van. He refused to hold the line of fire.”

Solus did not need to say it, but he did anyway, because it was important; because he was _surprised_ this boy had recognized it. “If he had pulled back, the legion would have been lost.” The Dalmascans would have poured through the gap, funneled into the opening the center line would have left. When the left flank was overrun with the smoke from the northern fires, forced back and to circle to the south to the main lines, if there had been an opening, they would not have been met by a pincer with the right flank using the Dalmascan fire against them to drive them into the wedge that the middle line created. Instead, they would have been overrun. The Dalmascans would have caught up and chased down the remaining center cohort and put them to the sword, and then, when the right flank did not find their other hand to meet them, they would have been caught between both fires, raging. And this boy had seen that, as clear as Solus could here in his tent with three decades of tactics in this life and more besides, but this boy had seen it upon the field of battle, in chaos and bloodshed and smoke thick enough to choke the life out of a man. “How did you hold the line? I cannot believe that a full cohort would be so willing to capitulate to an Optio.”

There was not a smile on pyr Baelsar’s face when he replied, but it was in his voice, a triumphant whisper. Not gloating; not so uncouth, not so unprofessional. But _pride_. “I did that which is done to all beasts of burden that can no longer bear their weight.”

He had done a job well. He had enjoyed it.

He had taken relish in it.

Solus’ grin widened.

“I put him out of his misery.”

“Impressive,” Solus murmured at last. “An unusual way of taking initiative, but certainly one I cannot fault. I thank you for your time, Optio. You may go, return to your cohort. I shall see it is made yours, Gaius rem Baelsar.” Solus turned away, waved his hand, in clear dismissal, and picked up his pen once again. Yes; a stronger Tribunus would increase the strength of the XIIth, a man with a future in another legion, a name to watch in the ranks—

“No,” Gaius pyr Baelsar said.

Solus set his pen down. In the resulting silence the soft _tack_ of the metal against the wood of his desktop was as loud as cannonfire.

Solus turned to look at the man. Gaius pyr Baelsar stood, unmoving, where he had been dismissed from. He had not budged. His jaw was tight. “No,” he said, again, clearer, to be certain Solus had heard him. “My Lord, I thank you for the kindness shown me, a gift I am not worthy of, but I refuse the promotion.”

“It is not yours to refuse,” Solus snapped. His patience was wearing thin; he had little and less interest in those who could not be trusted to perform the jobs they were needed for. Those mortal creatures who could not even do the work he needed from them. “I am your commanding officer and Emperor asides. You would spit in my face, boy?”

“If it is your will, Your Radiance, then I shall resign my commission and return to the Capital.” Solus stared at the boy like his head was on fire. He did not quail, not visibly, but there _was_ fear now. His voice did not shake, but it seemed to be held by a thread. There was true, genuine terror in his eyes, even if it did not strike his face, reach his voice. “Even cowards and dead men have children, my Lord. Should I be named Tribunus, lifted beyond my place on a merit unknown, that which is now an unspoken secret will, by necessity, become a spoken one. I will not see a future generation cast to the streets for the failure of their paterfamilias. There is no such thing as bad blood, and I would see Domitian’s children be gifted the same chance to succeed he was, rather than be robbed of it for the ghosts of the past. I will not take the promotion.”

Solus watched the boy, considering. Watched his stoic, still face. And, after a moment, picked up the pistol from where it sat not three ilms from his hand, pointed it at the Optio’s face, and cocked it. “Give me one reason,” he said, voice low, “I should not put a hole where your third eye is.”

And then the boy did the most curious thing. pyr Baelsar _smiled,_ a bloody predator’s grin, of teeth and viscera. “There is none, my Lord,” he said. “Should you wish to kill me, you would be within your rights as Emperor and Legatus. I have spoken out of turn, and been insubordinate in manner. Execution is the punishment for desertion, my Lord, and I have just deserted.”

“You are cocky, for a dead man walking.”

“Better I die here, my Lord, than dedicate my life in service to a man unworthy of it.”

Solus fired the pistol, and the bullet grazed the boy’s temple as it flew past, leaving a thin line of blood that dripped, the saturation bright against his skin. He did not flinch; not even so much as blink.

“Then,” Solus murmured, and lowered the pistol, “Allow me to present an alternative.” He leaned back in his chair, and spread his legs. “A talented young Optio with the support of his maniple and a fine record in combat, who led a cohort through hells and fire to win after his commanding officers fell in the line of duty, is deserving of at least the rank of Centurion.” Solus tapped the top of one thigh, and watched pyr Baelsar’s eyes dart down, catch, hold, and dart back to his face.

He smiled.

“A talented young Optio, already a gifted leader, should make Centurion. A talented young Optio with a mind meant for command and the attention of the Emperor would be Tribunus. Such stains are easy to wash away, and cannot be smelled over the scent of battlefield smoke, for few Tribunii go unloved by their men. What say you, Gaius?” The boy’s name in his mouth was easy, a roll of the tongue.

Gaius pyr Baelsar bowed his head, crossed the room, and knelt at Solus’ feet, his neck bared in capitulation, a greater show of servitude than anything given to save his head.

“Yes,” he said, and looked up at Solus with an expression of worship, of trust, of utter and absolute _devotion_ , “My Lord.”

**Author's Note:**

> social media @jonphaedrus


End file.
